A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
He sins against this life, who slights the next.
Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.
Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.
A land of levity is a land of guilt.